Kings of New York
by Miranda Snow
Summary: Jack and Spot go way back. The movie was only a tiny part of the story. But you knew that.
1. Chapter 1

"Get back here!"

The young boy had halted for a moment at the street corner, thinking he had lost his pursuer, but when he heard the raucous shout he took off running again. Gasping for breath and unable to check his momentum, he slammed into a blue uniform and fell backward. A hand reached down to scoop him up. Realizing that the hand belonged to a cop, the boy struggled in a feeble attempt to get away, but he was held fast.

"What are you running from, boy? Speak up!"

The storekeeper who had been pursuing the boy puffed up to where they stood, stopped before them, and gazed down at his quarry, his face bilious with rage. "I can answer that. He's been livin' in my back room now for 'bout a year; I give him some food and a place to sleep in return for a bit of work. But he ain't brought me nothin' but trouble, little wretch! He's bin stealin' from me ever since I laid eyes on him, and this time I caught him red-handed."

The boy mumbled something inaudible, and the cop shook the skinny arm he was holding.

"Speak up, boy!"

The boy suddenly lifted his head, revealing a wide face with delicate features and enormous blue eyes that blazed with anger. "'He's a liar! He don't give me no food, else I wouldn't a stole from him!"

"You're calling this man a liar, boy?"

The boy paused, eyes turned upward to the cop's well-fed face. Then he said firmly, "Yeah."

"It's a lie, sir! I treated him as if he was my own, an' he's been repayin' me by stealin' the very shirt off my back!"

"I ain't stole no shirts!" the boy said mutinously, glaring at the shopkeeper with pure hatred glowing from his face. "Just what he owed me for the work I done!"

"What's his name and age?" asked the cop.

"His name's Alexander Conlon. I don't know his age; don't think he knows it hisself. He just showed up on my doorstep and I took him in. He was in a bad way; mighta starved if I hadn't done somethin'," the shopkeeper said self-importantly. "I should say he's about twelve, officer, though he's so small. Are you gonna punish him, officer?"

The boy began to struggle again. "I ain't done nothin'!" he said loudly.

The cop, however, was not interested in the truth of the manner. He been through this scenario many times, and had found that it usually paid to side with the one who had the power. Which was clearly not the waifling he held tightly in his meaty hand. "Shuttup, lad." He turned to the shopkeeper. "You want this boy dealt with, man?"

"Yessir, anything to see that he's taken off my hands and gets his just punishment."

"You'll testify if need be?"

The man nodded eagerly.

"Awright then. Come along, lad."

The cop gripped the boy firmly by the back of the neck and strolled off down the street. Warden Snyder always liked fresh fodder; the more bodies in the Refuge, the more money in the pockets of all concerned. The cop did not allow his conscience to bother him on these little matters. It was, after all, no concern of his,

"Hurry up, boy. Don't lag."


	2. Chapter 2

It was early morning, but already hot. The sun beat down on his upturned face as he gazed up at an endless blue sky. Then he leaned forward in the saddle and kicked his horse gently in the ribs. It responded to his touch, and they flew across the open yellow fields. The breeze whistled in his ears, and he threw back his head, yelling to the wind. But his horse stopped suddenly, turned its head round, and said "Wake up!"  
  
"Cowboy! Come on, wake up, Cowboy!"  
  
Sullivan opened his eyes slowly, looking irritably into the eyes of the boy shaking him awake. "Stop it. I'm awake. Waddaya want?"  
  
"Nothin'. Snyder's comin'!"  
  
Sullivan sat up, fully awake now. Visits from Warden Snyder were rare, especially late at night, and they usually meant trouble. It would not pay to be in bed when he arrived. "Others up?"  
  
"Yeah. Come on!"  
  
Sullivan scrambled out of bed just as the door opened. Warden Snyder approached, pushing a small boy of eleven or twelve in front of him. They stopped next to a bunk, and Snyder gestured toward it. "This'll be yours, boy. The rules of this establishment are simple: Do what you're told, stay quiet, and don't make trouble. Break the rules and you will deal with me personally. If you think that doesn't sound like much, ask Sullivan. He'll tell you." The Warden smiled over at Sullivan, showing far to many teeth. "Won't you, Sullivan?"  
  
Sullivan looked Snyder right in the face and smiled back at him, showing just as many teeth.  
  
As the door closed behind him, all of the boys in the room relaxed slightly, then turned to eye the newcomer suspiciously. There was no child in the ineptly-named Refuge who had not lived on the streets for at least some of their lives, and most had a story to tell that could either break the heart or fill it with fear, and often both. The Refuge could be a dangerous place if you didn't decide quickly who your friends and enemies were, and any unknown quantity was subject to suspicion.  
  
So it was not with friendliness that Francis Sullivan circled the new boy, noting everything about him from his short, wiry stature to the cocky, what- the-hell-do-I-care-what-you-think expression in his pale eyes. Real sure of himself, Francis decided. On the scrawny side, pretty smart though. What do you wanna bet his middle name's Trouble.  
  
Having made a full circle around the new kid, Sullivan stopped and gazed at him condescendingly. "So you got a name, Shorty, or do we have to beat it out of you?" Let's see how deep that sass streak goes.  
  
"Names come cheap. Mine's Spot Conlon."  
  
"Spot, huh? That don't sound too promisin'. You get that name cause you're so short? Or cause you got a brain to match your size? Or cause that's what you look like when the hard knocks come, just a greasy little spot on the-"  
  
Jack was testing him, to see how far his courage would last under verbal fire... but the cocky little prick didn't even let him finish. "I do fine under knocks, I got a brain better'n anybody. And if I'se got anythin' to say about it, I'm gonna be taller'n you someday."  
  
"Yeah, if you'se standin' on coffeecan stilts. Drop the cheeky talk for a sec and just tell me straight how come you'se called Spot."  
  
The boy pulled out a worn slingshot from his belt, holding it up for his curious audience to see. "'Cause I's the best shot in New York."  
  
There was a silence as the boys tried to decide whether to laugh this off as a joke, or to soak the boy for bragging. But something in his manner made them believe that this presumptuous statement was nothing but the simple truth.  
  
It was Sullivan who spoke next. "You wanna prove that?" He expected somehow that the boy would bluster, take it back. But Spot seemed absolutely unmoved.  
  
"Sure. I'll hit anythin' you can see."  
  
The boys recognized a challenge when they heard one. They began to murmur excitedly, crowding around for a better view.  
  
"Right. how 'bout the top of the post on that bunk three over from y'left?"  
  
Conlon sneered. "A half-dead drunk wid a broken arm could hit that," he said contemptuously. "Who do y'think I am?"  
  
Sullivan grinned. "Fine." He strolled over to the tiny window clear at the other end of the room and touched the place where the bars crossing the window intersected. "Hit this."  
  
It was an impossible challenge. The room was only dimly lit, the bars scarcely visible against the blackness outside, the target tiny. But Spot Conlon was absolutely unmoved. He merely pulled a small blue marble from his pocket and was about to position it in the slingshot when Sullivan stopped him, incredulous that anyone would consider accepting a challenge that was so clearly impossible.  
  
"Wait!"  
  
Spot lowered his arm and lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.  
  
"You can't hit that."  
  
Spot laughed.  
  
"I mean it. If you break the window, Snyder'll see you don't eat for a week, never mind the beatin' you'll get. " Sullivan said.  
  
Spot made no reply at all. He positioned the shooter with practiced ease, pulled the band back carelessly. and fired.  
  
There was an audible gasp from the onlookers as the marble whizzed from the slingshot. Several boys shut their eyes, waiting for the crash of breaking glass, followed by the inevitable roar of rage from Snyder's office below.  
  
But there was no shattering sound. Only a sharp crack, followed by complete and utter silence.  
  
The boys gazed at the window frame. There was a small dent on the cross between the bars, and the stone Conlon had shot lay on the floor beneath the window.  
  
Slowly heads turned to stare at the supernatural being in their midst. Spot, impervious to the many pairs of astonished eyes fixed on his face, calmly tucked the slingshot back into his belt. There was an almost imperceptible smile of quiet satisfaction on his face, and he gave Sullivan a look that clearly said, "Well?"  
  
After a long pause, Sullivan turned on the little crowd.  
  
"Don't stare at the guy. Come on, let's go to bed."  
  
The boys slowly wandered back to their bunks. Sullivan's word was law, although they were all aching to pepper this phenomenal stranger with questions.  
  
When the boys were climbing into their bunks, Sullivan turned to Spot, speaking with far more respect than he had ever bothered to show any of the other newcomers.  
  
"Where'd you learn t'shoot like that?" he demanded.  
  
Spot shrugged. "A kid I met once made me the slingshot. I guess I taught myself pretty much. You gotta have somethin' t'defend yerself with when you live in the streets."  
  
"You'se a street kid too, then?"  
  
"Yeah. Ever since I could remember. I tried workin' for a while, at a dry goods shop on the East side, but the guy kept cheatin' me out of what he owed me. Finally I just decided to take my due." Spot face clouded. "But I got caught, and nobody cared about the truth, they just put me in here." He spoke with bitterness in every syllable. "For them, street rats like us ain't even human. We got no voice or rights. It don't even matter whether we tell the truth or not. All those high and mighty people want is to get us out of their sight, forget we exist, so they don't have t'feel guilty." He hunched his shoulders, staring rigidly at the floor, anger flooding his voice and face.  
  
Sullivan watched Spot's grim expression for a moment longer, understanding. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I got put in here a year ago, for stealin' food when I couldn't stand bein' so hungry no more. But a thief like me ain't half as bad as the theives out there that's supposed to be so respectable."  
  
He leaned back against the wall on which Spot had slumped. "Bein' in here is worse than bein' in the streets. At least out there you'se free, there's air t'breathe." He glanced at little Spot beside him, and acting on a wild impulse which he was never later able to explain, spoke from his heart. " Someday soon, I'm gonna break free of this damn jail. I'm gonna get a job, a real job, and save enough money that I can leave New York, go out west, and become a real cowboy. I'm not gonna spend my whole life bargaining for a crust of bread." He paused and looked again at Spot, who looked back at him, a little grin playing around his mouth.  
  
"I guess it sounds stupid."  
  
"Naw," said Spot. "I guess I got a dream like that too, but mine is even crazier." He took a deep breath and spoke seriously. "I don't wanna die a nobody. I want people to know my name. When I walk by, I want them to say 'Hey, ain't that Spot Conlon?' People's gonna remember me, who I was and what I did." He sat in silence for a moment, then, a little ashamed at having spoken with so little reserve, he chuckled, and continued more lightly. "And you know those carriages? Those big fancy ones the rich guys have? I always wanted to ride in one of those."  
  
Sullivan laughed with him, grateful to have the subject changed to something less personal. "Yeah. Me too." Then he shifted and thumped Spot lightly on the shoulder. "Well. call it a night then, all right? Tomorrow I'll show you the ropes of the establishment- when you're in the refuge, you gotta know you're way around, or you'll starve t'death."  
  
Spot lifted his head and gave Sullivan a grin, some measure of the cockiness he had shown earlier returning. "Thanks, Jack."  
  
"Wait. Sullivan, not Jack."  
  
"Yeah, I know. but you reminds me of something I heard a little girl on the street say once: 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.' You know?"  
  
Sullivan smiled slowly, rolling the name around his head. "Jack. I guess I likes it."  
  
"G'night then, Jack."  
  
"G'night, Conlon." 


	3. Chapter 3

It was a freezing cold mid-winter dawn, so cold that frost had formed on the inside of the windows. The boys were startled awake by the sound of a bell, followed by a banging on the door loud enough to raise the dead.  
  
"Get up! Come on, you worthless little rats, get up!"  
  
Sullivan groaned and lifted himself slowly out of bed. His joints felt frozen in place, and the floor was so cold that he gasped as his feet touched it.  
  
He moved slowly about the room, shaking the other boys awake. When he worked his way around to the other side of the room, Spot was already awake and standing.  
  
Spot greeted him with a cheerful swearword, along with a description of the weather that was accurate, though a little too colorful for elegance.  
  
"Sleep well, Jacky-boy?"  
  
"Jacky-boy?!" Sullivan said incredulously. "Don't push me, Conlon. It's too early."  
  
Mike, the boy on the top bunk, opened one eye and laughed. "Jacky-boy?  
  
Spot glanced up at him. "Jack. Like 'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.'"  
  
Mike sat up and considered. "Jack. Well, better'n Sullivan." He yelled out to the other boys, and within moments the whole bunkhouse was ringing with Sullivan's new name.  
  
The newly christened Jack turned wearily to Spot. "Thanks. So much for dignity."  
  
Spot grinned at him impudently. "Well, at least they's all awake now."  
  
Even irritable, Jack had to laugh. "All right then, smart guy. But you'll pay for this, let me tell you. You're helpin' me with breakfast."  
  
"What? They need spoon-feedin'?"  
  
"No, dumb-ass. It' like this; there ain't never enough food t'go around, see, so the workers that serve it just keep addin' water t'make it last. The first ones in line is the only ones that gets a real breakfast, so we's gotta defend our place so no one cuts us. Otherwise, we don't eat. That's the first job of a bunkhouse leader," he added. "To make sure all their boys eats. So if there's trouble, it's you'n me against whoever tries to push one of ours out of line." 


	4. Chapter 4

Breakfast at the Refuge (if the miserable, thin, lukewarm slop the boys were fed could be dignified with the name of breakfast) was served by a group of surly employees in a single vast room. The massive collective hunger of the inmates, combined with privation and a total lack of morals, created an almost feral atmosphere. Small boys were jostled out of place by larger ones, bowls were knocked out of hands, and fistfights often erupted.  
  
When Jack had first arrived at the Refuge, he had been the first to come up with a workable remedy for this situation. Before he had come, the place had been ruled solely by the laws of the jungle. The strongest, toughest, and meanest survived, while the unaggressive ones often simply wasted away.  
  
Jack had changed all that. Through a combination of charisma, daring, some force, and no small amount of popularity, he had established himself as the leader of House 4, and made a point of defending the rights of those in his section, making sure none of his own were cheated out of food or clothing. It had cost him untold bruises and one or two fractured limbs, but when the others saw the positive effect his leadership had on his little army, they scrambled to imitate. Soon all eight bunkhouses had their own leader, and a whole parliamentary system had developed, complete with recognized councils and ranks of command. None of the adult officials were particularly pleased with the development, as it looked suspiciously like independence, which was crushed as often as possible to prevent mutiny. But there was little they could do, beyond continually singling out Jack as the primary suspect when anything went wrong.  
  
But fights still broke out in spite of the system, and the leaders had taken to selecting the strongest fighters of their armies to help with breakfast. Spot was not a particularly good choice in this respect- he was small and thin, though wiry, and the sight of him was not likely to inspire much fear. Jack chose him anyway, with a vague, wry feeling that he might very well regret it shortly.  
  
They marched into the Dining hall and took the third place in line, two other bunkhouses having been quicker off the mark than they were. Jack headed the line, Spot strolling along behind him, looking smaller than ever despite his confident manner. After installing his boys in their places in line, Jack and Spot patrolled, on the lookout for any trouble, while they all waited for breakfast to arrive.  
  
For a few minutes at least it looked as if there would be no fights at all that morning. The cold seemed to have everyone moving in slow motion, trying to conserve energy to withstand the freezing chill. Then the door to the Dining Hall banged open, and Jack gave a private little groan as he spotted the burly figure of the bunkhouse 2 leader, known as Stomp for his fondness for literally kicking a man when he was down.  
  
Stomp was one of those tyrants seen so often in history who come into public favor largely because they leave their public no other choice. Before Jack's revolution, Stomp had mostly shifted for himself and a few dim-witted goons that followed him around everywhere and added to his personal muscle power. When he had realized the turn things were taking, he had bullied his way into leadership, threatening and maiming all who stood in his way.  
  
Stomp had always despised Jack for no particular reason other than that Jack commanded all the Stomp desired most and would never possess- popularity, charisma, and respect. He regularly picked fights with Jack, over breakfast line-up and anything else that presented itself as an opportunity. And from the belligerent expression on his face as he strode into the Dining Hall at the head of bunkhouse 2, today would be no different. Jack gripped Spot's arm and inclined his head slightly toward Stomp, whispering, "Get ready."  
  
Sure enough, Stomp sauntered up to on of Jack's smaller boys, known as Mitch, took him by the hair, and pulled the boy's head back sharply. Mitch gave little cry and flailed about in a weak attempt to pull away, but Stomp held him helpless. He leaned close, breathing fetid air in Mitch's face as he spoke.  
  
"Shrimps like you go in the back. Who told ya you could take my place in line?"  
  
Mitch winced in fear and struggled anxiously, but Stomp only tightened his grip on Mitch' scalp, and he stopped squirming with a little gasp of pain.  
  
"We don't like it when people try ta steal our breakfast." He leaned a little closer and spoke with studied gentleness. "But you didn't mean to, didja?"  
  
Mitch shook his head as vigorously as Stomp's death grip on his hair would allow him and whimpered a soft denial.  
  
Without turning his head, Stomp addressed the thugs behind him. "I dunno, boys. Should we believe him?"  
  
"Naw. Smash 'im!"  
  
"Kill 'im."  
  
Teach 'im a lesson."  
  
"He deserves a soakin'."  
  
"I hafta say, I think I agree with my boys here." Stomp smiled benevolently down at Mitch. "It's a pity you was in our spot. I hate ta hurt ya, but it's for yer own good."  
  
Stomp snapped his fingers, and the goons formed a tight circle around them, preventing Mitch from escaping. Little Mitch was sobbing openly now; he had seen what Stomp did to his victims. Desperately, he ran toward the linked arms, attempting to break the chain with the momentum of his slight weight. The boy on the right laughed and dealt him a savage blow to his stomach, knocking him to the floor, where he lay crumpled. "Cowboy!" he gasped frantically.  
  
The boys echoed him mockingly, and were stopped by a voice behind them. "Is there a problem, Mitch?"  
  
"Hold it," Stomp snarled. "Let him in." 


	5. Chapter 5

The boys reluctantly unclenched their fists, and the circle parted just enough to allow Jack and Spot to squeeze through. They still retained a tight grip on Mitch's neck.  
  
"Drop him," said Jack curtly.  
  
At a terse nod from Stomp, the boys complied. Jack reached down and pulled the tear-stained Mitch to his feet, then gave him a gentle shove towards the opening in the circle. The goons made an attempt to stop him, but were called off by Stomp. His eyes never shifted from Jack's face.  
  
"So.how are ya, my friend?" There was a wild gleam in Jack's eyes that appeared whenever a fight was coming on.  
  
"Fine. At least, 'til you showed your ugly face, you little bastard."  
  
"You referrin' ta me? Or is there a mirror around I hadn't noticed?"  
  
It wasn't the strongest of openings, but Spot recognized a cue when he saw one. He snickered softly and derisively.  
  
Stomp directed his gaze towards Spot. "What is this, the Shrimp League? Is this da best you can do, Cowboy?"  
  
There were mocking little murmurs of "Oohhh," from the circle around them.  
  
Jack grinned. "Are we a little nasty this mornin', baby boy? Or did we wet the bed last night?" Spot and Jack laughed together, fueling the flames of anger alight in Stomp's eyes.  
  
"I don't take kindly to bein' interrupted by misbegotten kids who thinks they's big and strong," Stomp said softly.  
  
"No? Neither do we." Jack also spoke sotto voice.  
  
"We? Dis your baby brother?" Stomp indicated Spot. "Or is he older?"  
  
"Insults is for cowards whose afraid ta get their hands dirty."  
  
"Cowards like you?"  
  
"I can soak you any day."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, you and the pigeon? Or whatever this is."  
  
"Me and Spot against you and whoever you want to wipe your bloody nose when we're through."  
  
Stomp looked Jack and Spot up and down. "All right. We'll oblige you kids, as long as you're sure you don't just want ta go back to your toys."  
  
"If you're afraid, we won't make you fight. I ain't in the habit of beating up little guys, myself." Jack replied.  
  
"Fine," Stomp snapped. "I choose Goliath."  
  
As the aptly named Goliath stepped forward from the circle, Jack and Spot cast covert glances at one another, each wondering if the other would buckle. Goliath was at least six feet tall, and must have weighed two hundred pounds. He was also stupid as an empty bucket, but with Stomp for brains he was the one of the most formidable fighters in the Refuge.  
  
The circle of boys widened as they made room for the contestants. Gazing at enormous Goliath, Spot whispered to Jack, "Woulda bin a hell of a lot easier just to starve on the streets."  
  
"You're tellin' me."  
  
"Think we'll live?" Spot asked. It was not a joking question.  
  
"Why should we?" It was not a joking reply.  
  
"Ah well. I didn't have much ta live for anyway."  
  
Goliath and Stomp advanced on them, identically murderous grins spread across their faces. Anything further Jack might have said was cut off sharply as Goliath connected a stunning blow to his jaw. Jack's head spun. No, they wouldn't live. They'd die with honor instead. 


	6. Chapter 6

They beat them. Impossibly, truly, and completely. Jack lay in the dark of his private confinement cell trying to figure it out. He recalled little of the fight, save that Goliath had had him on the ground and was throwing blow after blow in his face (Jack winced, remembering, and gently touched the painful swellings on his face). and then all of a sudden it was Goliath on the ground, not moving at all, and there were a whole lot of people crowded around, all trying to help Jack up, dust him off, shout in his ear. Something about Spot.  
  
There was a faint knock on the door, and Jack grunted, too sore and too exhausted to move his lips. The viewing slot in the door opened, letting in a little stream of light that fell on Jack's face. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, a face took shape in the slit.  
  
"Jack? Hey. It's me, Mike."  
  
"Mike, hey." The words came out in a slur, and it hurt to speak. He wondered vaguely if his jaw was broken. "What time is it?"  
  
"I dunno. We just finished supper though."  
  
Supper. Jack realized suddenly that he was ravenously hungry, and his mouth began watering so profusely that he had to swallow before he spoke. "Wadja bring me, then?"  
  
"Not much; I couldn't carry the soup, but I brought some bread."  
  
Jack hauled himself to his feet, suppressing the groan that rose to his lips at the pain, and limped toward the door to put his hand through the slot. "Give it here."  
  
Mike poked the three stale rolls through, and watched as Jack attacked them. "You don't look so good."  
  
"I feel fine." This was a lie, but Jack never admitted infirmity when he could help it. "How's Spot? Have you seen him?"  
  
"Yeah. He's right next door to ya. He ain't woken up yet. I left him some food. He's pretty beat up, but he's breathin'."  
  
"They ain't taken him to the infirmary?"  
  
"Conlon? Nah."  
  
"Good." In the Refuge, the infirmary was only a waystation on the way to the graveyard.  
  
"I dunno about Stomp 'n Goliath, though; I think they might be headed to the infimary after what Spot done to them," Mike speculated.  
  
"That bad?"  
  
"Don't you remember?"  
  
"Not much."  
  
"It was amazin'. They had you both on the ground, and we all figured you was as good as dead. Then all of a sudden Conlon gives this yell, real loud, nearly broke the windows, and he kicks Stomp right in the nuts and punches him like a hundred times, and Stomp falls over and lies real still. It was like real prizefighters. Then Conlon whips out the sling shot and hurls one at Goliath, who's just about t'kill you good and dead- then it's over, and Stomp 'n' Goliath both just layin' there, bleedin' real bad. You never saw so much blood in your life. It was amazin'. He's so little, you know? And then all of a sudden, wham!"  
  
"Yeah. I know. Hey.when he wakes up, tell him hey for me, okay?"  
  
"Sure, Jack. So long. Chin up."  
  
"Chin up."  
  
The flap closed, and Jack was again left alone to ponder what he had just learned. So little Spot had saved his life. The feeling this thought produced in Jack was an odd one- he writhed at the idea of being obligated to anyone in the world, feeling somehow that it made him less his own man.  
  
But it was nice to have a friend. 


	7. Chapter 7

Judging by the number of stale rolls the other boys snuck to Jack while he was imprisoned, he stayed in confinement for eight days after that first aching night. The only light that entered the room was the tiny shaft that filtered between the bars from the corridor outside. So when at last the door was thrown open and Jack was unceremoniously hustled from his cell, even the dim light of late afternoon was nearly blinding.  
  
"Francis Sullivan?" said the worker in an uninterested grunt.  
  
"No. The name's Jack." He was given a cuff for this, a stinging blow to the right cheekbone.  
  
"Don't give me lip, boy, or you're going in for another two weeks." Jack, in the interest of self-preservation, shut up. The worker made a little mark on his clipboard, then took Jack roughly by the shoulder and led him up the hallway towards the rooming houses. On the way, Jack turned his head slightly to look in to Spot Conlon's cell. Spot, surprisingly, was standing looking at Jack through the bars- and as he passed, Conlon gave him a thumbs up and a little wink through one bruised eye.  
  
That was the last time Jack saw Spot for at least a month, the longest solitary imprisonment that most Refugers could remember. Not without reason, either... for according to the wide-eyed reports given to Jack by the boys in his house, Spot had in fact killed Goliath. At least, no one had seen the hulking menace since the breakfast fight a week before. Stomp was still around, but he spoke in blurred words now, and his nose didn't look like it would grow back any time soon.  
  
Spot's absence only fed the legends surrounding his name. First it was "He's just a little guy, but he saved Jack in a fight, and he's got this slingshot that he's just amazin' with..." Next, "He's not so little as people tell you. He can knock down about ten guys at once and walk away without a scratch." Then "His face is covered with scars from when he was a junior prize fighter, and he used to have a gang of thieves who stole millions of dollars in diamonds, but then he killed a guy who threatened to go to the police. That's how come he's here."  
  
Jack listened to the stories with amusement, but did little to stop them. If Conlon had a reputation when he came out, it would make him all the more valuable as a friend. And as the weeks of Spot's imprisonment wore on, Jack found himself half-believing the wild tales. Against the stories of Spot the rakishly defiant anti-hero, the picture of Spot the small, thin, cocky boy began to fade just a little bit.  
  
So it was almost a surprise when, just as the house was settling down for the night, a pale little figure in exceedingly dirty clothes hobbled in. Jack put down the shirt he'd been trying to mend and gazed at the boy, puzzled.  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
The boy broke in to a smirk. "I was bettin' myself you wouldn't recognize me. Dirt's the best disguise of all."  
  
"Spot???"  
  
"Da same." Spot walked over to Jack and spit in one palm, then held it out. Jack did the same, and shook his friend's hand with a happy grin spreading over his face.  
  
"Welcome back, Conlon."  
  
The boys, who had fallen silent at the mention of the name of Spot Conlon, now surged forward en masse, their excited questions and exclamations creating a rumble of talk. But above it all rose Spot's voice, loud and complaining.  
  
"Ain't you got nothin' to eat for a returnin' hero?" 


	8. Chapter 8

Week led into week, and the weeks added up into months.  
  
Technically Jack should have been up for relocation (or 'parole', as Jenson put it) only a month after Spot first arrived. Even with his extended sentence for disruptive behavior following the fight with Stomp and Goliath, by rights he ought to have been gone by now. But though only a short while ago he had been counting off the days until his release, something held him to the Refuge. Jack kept committing small crimes which added a few weeks here and a few weeks there- little stuff, like talking in the work line, or mouthing off to a supervisor, or asking for more gruel at breakfast. But the real reason he did these things was not 'to keep 'em on their toes', as he jokingly told the boys. It was Spot.  
  
The camaraderie between them had developed into a deep friendship, such as neither had ever allowed themselves to have before. They never spoke of the bond between them, or even complimented one another- on the contrary, some of the Refugees perceived them as rivals, because their joking constantly took the form of mutual insults. But they were always in each other's company, the fellow leaders of bunkhouse 4, the boys no one dared to mess with. They switched so that they could have bunks next to one another, and would whisper late in to the night about their past lives and their plans once they escaped from the Refuge.  
  
And in his heart, Jack knew that there was no way he would leave this place without Spot by his side. So he continued to commit his petty crimes, waiting for a chance of a duo escape to present itself.  
  
Meanwhile, Jack grew a little, and Spot grew a lot. To commemorate this development, they had a joint 'birthday party', with apples and beer stolen from the Refuge workers' stash. Mike, Ripley and Jenson, having had more than their share of beer, climbed atop one of the bunks and began to sing what they had titled "An Ode to Jack and Spot". There was no apparent tune or rhyme scheme, and most of the words were slurred, but the passion was there. In fact, the boys became so moved by their own music that they woke the night supervisor, who was displeased, to say the least. Every boy in the room got another four weeks added to their sentence on that occasion, and Jack, Spot, and the three singers were given three days in solitary. But all agreed it had been worth it just to watch Ripley fall off the top bunk while attempting a grand gesture as he demonstrated Spot's fighting prowess. They never let him live it down.  
  
With the death of Goliath and the humiliation of Stomp, life in the Refuge became a bit better for the boys. Breakfast went off more smoothly, for one. All but the most passionate fistfights could be stopped by a single glare from Spot, which meant fewer punishments and fewer injuries. The workload was still intense- hour upon hour in the freezing cold, carting rocks to construction sites or slaving in the textile factories. A rash of heavy coughs tore its way around the Refuge. Some of the boys disappeared for good. But as the months wore on the bunkhouses slowly warmed up, and the hacking and wheezing became softer. As Spot put it, life was "bout as good as it gets in jail."  
  
But both Jack and Spot continued to whisper at night. Neither was cut out for the cloistered environment and strict punishments of the Refuge. They chafed under Warden Snider's rule, taking nearly every opportunity for silent rebellion. Spot was the especial thorn in the side of the supervisors. Extensions on his sentence made no difference to him. He was already in the chink until he was eighteen, without possibility of release, for the manslaughter of James 'Goliath' Winschell. And it was unlikely that he'd be let free after that, either. More likely a good couple of decades in an adult prison before he ever saw the full light of day.  
  
The prospect of such lengthy imprisonment seemed to evoke a kind of reckless desperation in Spot. There was an unusual glow to his eyes whenever the work line passed the Refuge gates at the beginning and the end of the day. Jack, seeing this, prepared himself for the inevitable explosion. 


	9. Chapter 9

A.N., just in case some of you didn't see my note to the person who asked about this-Kings of New York is not intended as a slash story. Spot and Jack are very close friends here- to use Jay and Silent Bob's term, they're 'hetero lifemates'. So yeah. If you're a Spot-Jack shipper , there's plenty of subtext you can read into to keep you a happy little clam. But for those of you who don't care for slash, read on without fear.  
  
..............................  
  
There were several weeks of relative peace in the Refuge. The weather grew warmer as spring approached, and life had fallen into a routine of work and sleep and jokes and bruises. Then one morning Jack awoke to find that the windows had again been covered with frost in the night, and that his cheek had frozen to his mattress. The other boys were also awakening, and coughs rang out again from bunk to bunk.  
  
"Spot... hey, Conlon, wake up," Jack hissed. Spot grunted through his nose and sleepily opened one eye to observe Jack's plight. He began to laugh, the chuckles interspersed with breaths that wheezed painfully through his chest.  
  
"Shut up and help me."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I dunno, think of something!"  
  
Still giggling, Spot rubbed his hands together until the friction built up heat, and began to ease his palms underneath Jack's cheek. As the cold eased, Jack felt his face come slowly unstuck, and in another moment was on his feet and shouting into the rising din of complaints and coughs and rebellious yells that filled the bunkhouse.  
  
"Everybody shut up and listen!" The room fell quiet, though the boys continued to shift from foot to foot as the cold reddened their bare feet.  
  
"Those of you with blankets, wrap 'em around your shoulders. Find a buddy and cuddle up. I don't care if you look like a sissy, better that than frostbite."  
  
"People with coughs is first in line for breakfast," added Spot. The coughing in the room increased in volume as everyone suddenly developed one. "But if I find out you's fakin' I'll slog you and send you to the back of the line." The noise decreased.  
  
"Right," Jack said. "Now put on every inch of clothin' you own and get out as fast as you can. No washin', the taps are prob'ly frozen."  
  
There was a scuffle for several minutes, and Jack and Spot roamed around stopping fights as the boys argued over who owned which shirt. At last all were ready, and they hustled out and down the corridors to the dining room.  
  
Unfortunately, they weren't the first. Four other bunkhouses had run to arrive at breakfast and were in line ahead of them. Spot paused at the door, blinking in disbelief. "Shit," he said succinctly.  
  
There was nothing they could do but hope that the food would stay unfrozen until their turn came. So they filed grumbling into their place in line and waited, shuffling and rubbing their arms to keep warm. And waited. And waited.  
  
It was nearly seven o' clock and time for work, and still there was no sign of breakfast. The discontent in the room was palpable as the boys stood blue and shivering in their light spring clothing. Whimpers could be heard amongst the younger boys, and each small thin wail that emerged from the miserable huddles caused both Spot and Jack to react physically, as though someone had slapped them across the face. Little Mitch, pale and thin from his illness, turned green and fainted. His head hit the floor with a sick thud just as the bell rang for the work lines to form.  
  
Noisy curses arose from every pair of lips at the sound of the bell, but the boys reluctantly began to form their teams. It was Spot's voice that stopped them.  
  
"Hold it right there! Don't anybody move!"  
  
Startled, Jack turned to look at him, and felt a twinge of anxiety combined with rising excitement at the look he saw on Spot's face. The rebellious glow that had lingered in Spot's eyes these past few weeks had sparked into a steady burn. Jack had no idea what was going to happen, but whatever it was, it would be big. 


	10. Chapter 10

*****  
  
The room had quieted at Spot's call, the boys turning to search for the one who had spoken. Spot clambered up to stand on the surface of the rough wooden table, raising his arms to draw everyone's eyes. His face was alight and his voice had a strength to it that commanded the total attention of all 500 upturned faces.  
  
"Why are you walkin'away?" Spot asked loudly, pointing to the boys nearest the door.  
  
There was some shuffling and confusion, then one boy spoke up. "There ain't nothin' here. We gots ta go to work or we won't get dinner neither. And maybe a beatin'."  
  
"Wrong. That's why you's scared. But why're you walkin' away?"  
  
A perplexed murmur spread through the room. Spot yelled to quiet it.  
  
"Hey!" Silence once more. "So you just gonna walk away from this? You gonna let them think they have the right to make us starve and freeze and then work our asses off for their own profit?"  
  
The hush in the room was uncomfortable as Spot's eyes roamed over every face.  
  
"Well, I'm not. I ain't gonna do no work today."  
  
"Look at him," he continued, pointing to Mitch's thin unconscious form, stretched out along the floor with his buddy Ally's coat for a blanket. "He's nine years old. Been in here for six months cause he stole an apple. He was HUNGRY. Have they taught him nothin'? Have they taught him how to go out and find ways to live what don't involve stealin'? NO. Instead they starved him and made him do the work of a grown man and then beat him when he cried."  
  
Everyone gazed at Mitch, and a few hard hungry faces softened somewhat as they looked at his pale face.  
  
"I don't know about you. But I gots RIGHTS. I'm in here 'cause I'm thirteen years old, with no one to speak for me. But I got myself, I got my own voice. And there is no fat rich guy with a whipping cane who can make me forget that I'm human. The folks who live off our work, they think they can make us silent just as easy as they can make us hungry. But are they RIGHT?"  
  
There was a long, long pause in the room. Everyone wanted to speak. No one had the courage to be the first.  
  
"No," said Jack.  
  
All faces turned to look at him, and a few echoed. "No," "No way," "Tell'em, Spot."  
  
Mike spoke up from his place at the corner of Spot's table, looking challengingly up into his face. "So what do you want us to do about it? Yeah, we all hate the Refuge. But they're the one that got the keys."  
  
"And there are five hundred of us and about thirty of them."  
  
"So what are you saying? That we kill em all?" A ripple went through the room at Mike's words. Some boys were shocked, while the tougher ones muttered suppressed approval.  
  
"I say we leave. Soak any bastard that tries to stand in our way. No way can they round up five hundred kids in a city with half a million people in it."  
  
"How?" said Mitch timidly from beneath his blanket.  
  
Spot paused for a moment, thinking. All eyes were on him. No one dared to move or even breathe loudly.  
  
Then, with a tiny, cocky grin, Spot hopped off the table. "Don't matter how. We just do it."  
  
The silence lasted for only a few seconds as Spot walked confidently towards the door. Then a roar started from the middle of the room and spread outwards until every boy was cheering, running, screaming, pressing in a massive, tumbling mob towards the doorway and streaming out into the hall, with pride and vengeance on every face. 


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi there. I don't know if anyone in the Newsies fandom still remembers this story, because it hasn't been updated in... I guess it must be about three years now. Anyway, it was my beloved baby brother Charlie Bird's request that I write some more of this story as his 15th birthday present. Happy birthday, Charlie Bird. You're my favorite dood ever, even if you are getting unforgiveably old. (Incidentally, everybody should go read his story "Right Hand Man," which I have just read myself and which is awesome.) I've spent a few hours in the last couple of weeks on this, so I have a few short chapters in reserve, which will be posted over the next few days as I clean them up. After that, we'll see how far I can go before I wander off again... I'm kind of flakey like that..._

So yeah. Comment, flames, requests, etc can go in the reviews or you can send them to me at Enjoy.

Jack found himself carried along in the tide of bodies, his eyes fixed on the back of Spot's head as it appeared and disappeared at the front of the roaring crowd. Something was niggling at his mind, through the rush of excitement that threatened to engulf all of his conscious thought...

Aha. That was it.

He gave a final mighty push through the crowd of bodies and reached Spot's side. Spot looked up as Jack crashed into him and grabbed Jack's shoulders, shaking him, clapping him on the back, grinning and yelling like a madman, but no words that Jack could make out above the din.

"We have to get to Snyder's office!" Jack roared, trying to make himself heard. "We're headed towards the gates, but we don't have the key!"

"WHAT?"

Jack gave up on complete sentences, leaned forward and howled in Spot's ear. "THE _KEY_!"

"Oh... yeah, good thought." Spot half-turned and looked over his shoulder at the hallway packed with shouting, mob-mad boys. A slight look of bewilderment passed across his face as it became apparent to him that, far from being the leaders of this crowd, he and Jack were being forcibly carried by it, and in the wrong direction. If they tried to turn around now and head in the direction of Snyder's office, they would be trampled.

Under other circumstances Jack would have had a good laugh at Spot's confusion, but there were more important things to be done. As they reached the next hallway Jack grabbed Spot by the collar and pulled him off to one side.

"This way, I know a short cut!"

They sped off together down the route that Jack had learned in his second week at the Refuge when he had been younger and stupider and inclined to leave dead mice on Snyder's desk just to prove that he could. He'd cut that out when he'd gotten caught and beaten for the third consecutive time, and it had been a while since he'd used the route.

They ran down two corridors and tumbled down a flight of stairs before bursting through a set of swining doors. Then Spot slowed up, looking at Jack angrily.

"This is the _kitchen_, stupid! Now we're two flights down from Snyder's office! What the hell are you playin' at?"

"You'll see," said Jack. Opening a cabinet in the wall next to them, he again grabbed Spot by the collar and shoved him onto the old dumbwaiter. Then he hopped on himself and began hauling at the ropes.

Spot caught on and began to laugh. "How come you never told me about this?"

"A guy's gotta have some secrets. Didn't want you stealin' all my best ideas. 'Sides, usually there's people guarding the kitchen, but I was bettin' they all heard the noise about ten minutes back an' went runnin' for the hills."

Spot laughed happily and lent him a hand with the ropes.

The platform on which they knelt creaked dangerously as they pulled themselves upward, and Jack had a sudden moment of fear as it occured to him that the old dumbwaiter was carrying about three times as much weight as it was probably designed for. He gulped nervously, but then glanced upward and saw, about six feet above them, the rectangle of light outlining the opening to Snyder's office. Spot saw it too, and began pulling harder.

In a matter of seconds they had hurled themselves against the inside of the clost door, and were tumbling out onto the floor of Snyder's office.


	12. Chapter 12

Why had Jack assumed the room would be empty?

He and Spot knelt on the floor where they had fallen, gazing up at the towering Snyder like shocked deer. The warden's face was more billious with rage than Jack had ever seen it. Out of the corner of his eye Jack perceived a stout, well-dressed man, a stranger, sitting in the chair across from Snyder's desk, but he had little attention for anything but the dangerously angry Snyder.

Pick yourselves up, boys, said Snyder, his voice furious but surprisingly soft.

Awkwardly Spot and Jack scrambled up from the floor, the fire of rebellion momentarily quelled by surprise and confusion.

Apologize to Mr. Roosevelt for interrupting our meeting. Jack and Spot mumbled an apology to the stranger, although Jack noticed the man looked more amused than offended.

That's all right, boys, said Mr. Roosevelt in a big, jovial voice. We were nearly through anyway. I think I'll be going now, Mr. Snyder, if we've come to an agreement. Snyder nodded, not taking his eyes off of Jack. Very well, I'll just leave you to your work then, said Roosevelt, standing and heading towards the door. Don't be too hard on them, Mr. Snyder, I'm sure it was just a bit of fun. Most creative, using the dumbwaiter like that. I congratulate you two. Make fine army officers some day, he commented as he left.

The moment the door had closed, Snyder grabbed both boys by the neck in a crushing grip. The sheer goddamned nerve of you creatures will never cease to amaze me. He spoke in the tone the Refugees called ice-hot,' the peculiar combination of rage and control that was more paralyzing than any shouting. No matter how you are punished, no matter how _clearly_ you are shown that all your lawbreaking and mayhem only leads to more trouble, you continue to disobey. Do you do it for pleasure, I wonder? Will you keep this up forever?

_So that's how you see us,_ thought Jack, in a startling moment of clarity. _Little crime machines. No wonder you treat us like you do... You think you're right to hate us. You think you're doing us GOOD. _He felt frozen, made dizzy by his sudden vision of a world in which Snyder could see himself as a good man. Law-abiding. Just.

We'll keep on goin' til we gets what we wants, said Spot, recovering his defiance. What we deserve.

_No_, thought Jack. _No, that was the wrong thing to say. You just made him right._

But he didn't have time to explain this, even if he'd wanted to. The door burst open and Mike appeared, wild-eyed and with the beginning of a bruise darkening on his left cheek.

Jack, Spot! They called the police! Somebody called the police! You gotta come quick, we're dyin' out there!Of course I called the police, you foolish boy. Did you think you could all simply walk out of here? said Snyder calmly.

Dimly, Jack could hear the sounds coming from the courtyard, though the windows were firmly shut. Screams. The boys were screaming. And it was no longer joyful and rebellious. It sounded like what it wasa mob of frightened boys being beaten by grown men.

You lousy _bastard_, he said to Snyder. You goddamn filthy _bum_. And without a second thought, he snatched a heavy brass ashtray from the desk and hit the warden as hard as he could on the temple.

Snyder released his grip on the boys' necks and staggered backward, eyes unfocused. Then he tumbled to the floor.

said Spot after a moment of silence. Good one.Let's get that key, before he wakes up. said Jack. He felt cold and heavy all over.

Spot knelt and fished in Snyder's pocket until he came up with a ring of keys. Then they left the office and ran toward the courtyard as fast as they could.


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: First of all, I apologize for the shortness of the chapters. I realize it's probably annoying, but this way I can type short sections when I have time, rather than taking a million years to write a full chapter. I apologize also for the darkness and violence of the story thus far. I'll try to have some lighter stuff once these poor boys make it out of their tight spot._

Charlie Bird: Love you too. I'm happy you're fifteen, and I miss your squeaking like a baby turtle.

PsychoJo: Nice to see one of the old readers has found her way back! I'm hoping some more people who used to be fans of the story will come sniffing around again. In answer to your question, I think the boys are about twelve or thirteen, maybe fourteen, but I don't think either of them is really sure what their birthday is.

Alesca: Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying it. I'll try to keep updating.

Ashgrl: Glad you like it. Yeah, it won't be a slash, although if I'm still writing this by Charlie's next birthday I may throw in a (labelled) alternate scene or something, just because I realize there's some subtext in the closeness of their relationship. I'm kinda curious now to try writing a mushy scene, just because my style of writing is so not-romantic...

Anyway, on with the story.

Not that way, they's right outside the exit, said Mike as they reached the main staircase and Jack and Spot turned to rush down to the courtyard. They'd bash you in fore you could spit.Where do we go, then? asked Spot. We just gonna sit here and wait for Snyder?Hell no, we'll take the fire escape.Wait, wait, said Jack. What about the others?Yeah, we can't just leave em to get squashed.

Mike looked at them both in disbelief. They's already _squashed_, Conlon. There's about fifty cops out there with horses and clubs and guns. Most of the boys is dead, bleedin', hidin' or beggin' for mercy. He laughed bitterly. What were you gonna do, take all the cops down with your slingshot? Big scary Spot Conlon and his goddamn slingshot?

Spot's face clouded over and twisted with rage. He lifted his fist and darted towards Mike. Jack caught him and held him back.

I ain't a coward, yelled Spot. I'd fight em til I was dead or they was.Big talk, Conlon. You're just a kid, same as the rest of us. All that talk about revolutionyou was just gettin' us stirred up to get crushed right back down again. Some leader you are!Take that back, Mike, you don't mean that, Jack pleaded as he tried to restrain the hissing Spot.

I mean it. He got us into this.

Spot struggled against Jack. I was tryin'... he said with gritted teeth. I was just... But he couldn't finish the sentence.

Yeah, well, tryin' ain't good enough, Conlon, Mike said. Grief and anger and frustration oozed from him. He had considered himself Jack's right hand man before Spot showed up, and his resentment had never been a secret. Now it was all coming out. Every beatin' we took today is your goddamn fault. He turned away and walked to the window that led to the fire escape. Now let's get outa here.

Jack held on a moment longer, thinking Spot might leap for Mike's throat if he let go. But Spot lowered his fists and shook Jack's hand off angrily. All right, let go. I wouldn't take him when his back was turned. But next time, you ain't holding me back no how.

In silence, they reached the fire escape, wrestled the window open, and climbed out.

The sight that met their eyes as they looked down at the courtyard was truly tragic. Most of the boys had been herded into the northwest corner and were being coralled there by seven mounted cops aiming guns into the crowd of huddled bodies. The boys were pale and shaking with defeat and fear and cold. Even from a distance, Jack could see the blood stains on heads and arms and legs.

But he avoided looking at the four or five crumpled bodies that lay scattered around the rest of the courtyard. He didn't want to know. Beside him, Spot made a strangled noise that was half a curse, half a sob.

They stood there for only a moment, but it was long enough for one of the cops roaming the courtyard to notice them. Hey! There's a few more up there!

Cries arose from the boys. It's Jack and Spot! Run, hurry, get out! Don't let em get you! And, most heartbreaking of all, help us!Shut up, boys, shouted one of the guards roughly, and fired a shot into the air. The boys quieted.

Meanwhile three guards had surrounded the base of the fire escape and were gazing up at Jack and Spot and Mike. Come down quiet-like and we won't hurt you, one of them called.

Like hell you won't, Mike yelled back.

Come down or we'll have to shoot.Since when does big cops try to kill little kids?Since little kids started getting so damned rowdy and dangerous. Now come down, said the cop who had spoken before, and at his signal the other two aimed their guns upward.

You can't take em down, can you? Jack whispered to Spot.

Spot shook his head. Naw, not with their helmets and vests.Okay then, said Jack. We just back up slow and try to get inside as fast as we can. I know a couple good hiding spots, we can wait 

But he didn't get a chance to say what they would wait for, because from behind them came the sound of angry adult voices calling for Francis Sullivan's blood. Jack turned to see two of Snyder's aides, big muscle men who'd given the Refugees too many broken limbs to count, heading down the hall towards the fire escape. Both carried cocked pistols.

What're we gonna do? said Mike, and both Jack and Spot forgave him completely for the fear that made his voice crack like a little girl's, because neither of them had an answer.


	14. Chapter 14

The rumble of carriage wheels caught Jack's attention, even as he and the other two stood trapped and frozen on the fire escape.

Get up to the roof, he hissed, grabbing at Spot's sleeve. I've got an idea.

With wordless speed the three boys scrambled further up the fire escape and onto the roof, crouching as low as possible to the brick, the angry calls of the adults and the encouraging shouts of the Refugees urging them on. A shot fired, and all three boys cringed, glancing around wildly until they determined that none of them had been hit.

This way, yelled Jack, and they followed him a dozen yards to the left, where sure enough a carriage was coming out of the inner courtyard, heading towards the gate.

Quick! Jump!

Spot, eternally heedless and lucky, beat Jack to it. He landed on the roof of the carriage with catlike grace and immediately got down flat on his belly as another shot fired into the air. Jack followed, not quite so gracefully, and turned behind him to beckon Mike.

But even as he turned he realized it was too late. The horses, startled by the boys' landing and by the warning gunfire, had darted several steps forward, pulling the carriage too far from the roof. If Mike jumped now, he would fall two stories to the cobblestones below.

Everyone was shouting the refuge boys, the cops, the surprised and irritated carriage driver. From where he lay, with his face slightly over the top of the carriage, Jack saw a hand emerge from the covered window below, wave briefly at the crowd, and retreat again. Evidently Mr. Roosevelt believed the shouting and even the gunfire was in his honor.

Though Roosevelt's driver loudly cursed both the horses and the two fugitives who lay atop his carriage, the nervous horses were not to be stopped. The carriage pulled away from the gates as Jack and Spot looked back over their shoulders at the crowd of boys, the angry guards, and the diminishing figure of Mike still standing on the roof of the Refuge as Snyder's stooges climbed the fire escape to fetch him.

Then the carriage turned a corner, and the Refuge disappeared behind the rows of brick buildings lining the busy thoroughfare.

It took the driver another half a block to get the horses to come to a full stop. When the carriage finally halted Jack and Spot were ready. They half climbed, half fell from the top and took off running the moment they hit the pavement, barely evading the grasp of the angry driver, who called them any number of foul names before Roosevelt poked his head from the carriage demanding to know why they had stopped.

But by that time the boys were a block away and still running. They raced through the crowded streets, dodging pedestrians, street vendors, buggies, newsboys, old men and young women and laborers and urchins and all the other people who filled the roads on a weekday morning in New York City.

As the distance between them and the Refuge increased, they slowed to a walk, and finally stopped in front of a large, shabby theater. Spot threw himself down on a bench that stood near the entrance.

Guess we're all right for now, yeah? said Jack.

Spot nodded mutely.

You okay? You ain't hurt or nothin''?

Spot nodded again. After a moment, Jack sat down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

Look, you ain't lettin' what Mike said get to you, are you? He was just scared, he didn't mean it...Shut up, Sullivan, said Spot, shaking Jack's hand off with sudden fury. Don't touch me, I don't want your damn coddling.

Jack sat in silence, not knowing what to say. Because in a way, Mike had been right, and they both knew it. The whole thing had been one stupid, aimless tragedy, and it had been Spot who started it. He had inflamed them all with his sudden rebellious passion, and they'd all been so carried away on the tide of rhetoric that nobody had stopped to think. If only they had planned it beforehand, if they had stolen the key in advance, if they had cut the phone line...

But it was no use thinking of all the ifs and should haves. Here they were, he and Spot, free at last to roam the streets of New York in search of the future. It was what they had been dreaming of together for months and yet now it had come true it was all wrong. They were supposed to be laughing, excited, giddy with freedom and possibility. Instead they were hungry, cold, miserable and guilty.

They sat on the bench for a long time, brooding and watching the passersby as the day grew warmer. In his hand, Spot still held the gate key he had taken off of Snyder. He turned it over and over in his fingers.

After what seemed like hours, Spot sat up and shook his shoulders in the odd, twitchy way he had, as though he were shrugging off cobwebs. He turned to Jack.

So. What now? He was trying to be noncholant, although his voice still had the rough edge of supressed grief.

Well... we could start with some food. I'm starvin'.Yeah, me too, I guess.How bout him? said Jack, and nudged his head towards the hot chestnut vendor who stood a few yards from them, whistling tunelessly as he filled a paper cone full of the hot treats for a young woman in a pink dress. Spot turned to look. Quietly, like the experience urchins they were, they sized up the possibilities.

If I go up and start askin' him stuff, like the time of day, then you could... Spot began.

Nah, he'd never fall for that one.You could pretend to have a fit, and while he was lookin' the other way, I couldNobody's that stupid. Come on, Conlon.We could ask him to treat us, said Spot with a twisted smile.

Yeah, I'm sure he'd be real happy about that. If we smiled real pretty he might even take us home and give us a bath.Well, what's your brilliant idea, Jackie-boy?

Jack's eye wandered from the vendor to the girl not girl, woman, she was older than her frilly dress implied as he thought. She was walking slowly towards them now, pink skirt swaying around her ankles in a funny, stagey way. Probably a prostitute, Jack thought. His eyes wandered up to her face too made up to tell her age, but she was pretty. Very pretty. Now why on earth would such a pretty woman stop dead when Jack met her eye?

she said. Is that little Francis Sullivan? She walked closer, quickly, the self-concious sashay gone from her step.

How's this broad know you? Spot queried.

Beats me, I never seen her before. At leastIt _is_ you! Isn't it? said the woman. She had come to a stop three feet in front of the bench, and was standing with her hands on her hips, gazing at Jack with a mixture of pleasure, astonishment, and faint accusation. Jack was completely nonplussed.

Yeah, that used to be my name. Jack said cautiously.

She laughed. Used to be. You're just like your daddy, you know that? I woulda known you anywhere. She popped a hot chestnut into her pink painted mouth, smiling.

You knew my dad? Jack's heart jumped painfully.

Yeah, I used to be one of the girls in his joint. You were just a tiny kid then, though, you wouldn't remember. I was there when well, when we all got busted.Oh. Wow. I woulda thought I'd remember you then. Wasn't so long ago.Six years, kid. That's an age and a half. Where's he now?Dunno. Still in the clink, I guess. I ain't seen him since then.Goodness. So you've been on your own since then?Yeah, more or less.Aw, you poor kid. 

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other. Jack was trying hard to remember her he would have thought she'd stand out in his memory, with that bright red hair and the soft, slightly hoarse voice. Of course, her hair could be dyed, and most of the girls in his dad's joint had hoarse voices, from working long nights in the smokey bar. Besides, he wouldn't have had any reason then to notice if one woman was prettier or nicer than the others. He'd only been about seven, after all.

So... what're you doin' now? Jack asked. He was really curious. She looked well, not rich, definitely not rich, but a hell of a lot better than she had probably looked when she was working for his dad.

I'm an actress. Doin' pretty well for myself.Yeah, looks like you are.How bout you, how are you keepin' yourself now?Well... actually, my friend and me, we's out lookin' for a job right now.Really? Well that's just perfect! Our two cleanin' boys got fired just last night, and the owner's lookin' for replacements in a big hurry. You two'd be perfect!

Jack looked at Spot. Spot looked at Jack. It was almost too good to be true, not having to look for some horrible sweatshop job, stealing food and sleeping on the street while they searched for days and weeks.

Thanks, MissOh, it's Larkson, Medda Larkson. Course, you'd have known me before as well, never mind, those days're all over now, thank heaven.Well, thanks, Miss Larkson, we'd be real pleased to do it, if the manager'd really take us,  
Jack said politely.

Call me Medda. I'm sure he would. Positive, in fact. Come in and meet him right now, there's a rehearsal in just a few minutes. She beckoned them eagerly, and turned to lead them into the theater, her skirt flipping firtaciously around her little pink boots as she ran up the steps. Jack followed her, and Spot followed Jack, chuckling audibly.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. We landed on our feet, Jackie-boy. Good work. 


End file.
